


Guess I Never Really Knew (The Lengths That I Would Go For You)

by The Blue Escapist (theblueescapist)



Category: The Administration - Manna Francis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 09:57:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8886499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theblueescapist/pseuds/The%20Blue%20Escapist
Summary: For Pun. Title taken from Eliot Sumner's "I Followed You Home".





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pun/gifts).



> For Pun. Title taken from Eliot Sumner's "I Followed You Home".

Toreth would have enjoyed the evening a lot more under different circumstances. As ridiculously expensive as the suit had been, it was proving an excellent investment: he was turning even more heads than usual, and when both husband and wife of a corporate couple could not stop themselves from flirting with him and then glaring daggers at each other, Toreth had a hard time hiding a smirk. 

From the corner of his eye, he caught Warrick staring. He raised an eyebrow at Toreth; Toreth raised an eyebrow back, ignoring the distaste on Dillian’s face as she stood next to Warrick. 

He moved on to the last target of this first sweep, a short middle-aged balding man, bumping into him in the right way to make sure he wasn’t carrying anything security hadn’t noticed. The man responded to Toreth’s polite excuses and subsequent meaningless pleasantries in a hoarse, wheezy voice, all the while squinting at him. The brief exchange left Toreth undecided whether the man’s poor health was fake or genuine; in doubt, he would consider him a potential threat. 

Nine suspects already from the thirty-two people currently surrounding Warrick: Toreth felt his frustration rising. 

Careful to keep Warrick in his line of sight, Toreth slid next to Sara, who had approached the buffet table and was filling her plate with appetisers that smelled as excellent as they looked—after several subdued events in the aftermath of the revolt, SimTech seemed to have gone back to its former habit of sumptuous banquets. Toreth tried to tone his temper down by spending a full minute thinking of what a particularly inviting pastry would taste like if he actually gave in and ate it.

“Anything?” Toreth subvocalized, as he carefully avoided turning towards Sara.

“Nope. Rob has nothing, too,” she said in her throat microphone. 

His irritation flared again, and Toreth was having so much trouble keeping it in check that he almost missed it when it happened: the middle-aged man picking up two glasses from the waiter’s tray and offering one to Warrick, Warrick accepting with polite disinterest.

Then his training kicked in and he shoved everyone out of his way. Toreth slapped the glass out of Warrick’s hand, content spilling all over the carpet, as he pinned the man to the floor.

“Toreth.” Warrick said, ice in his voice. “What do you think—” Warrick’s protest died on his lips as his breathing grew increasingly more laboured, his hands flying to his throat.

Toreth was vaguely aware of Dillian’s screams, of the frantic struggling against his elbow, but all he felt was the blood leaving his own face as Warrick’s became congested. 

He couldn't believe it. Warrick had actually _drunk_ from a glass handed to him by a stranger and now he was—Warrick was—

Toreth let the rage consume him. Nobody intervened or even noticed when he started hitting the assassin he hadn’t been close enough to stop.

* * *

Later on, Toreth would always claim he did not remember what happened after. 

It was, of course, a lie: he remembered everything in excruciating detail. Since those moments had now joined his other recurring dreams, however, he failed to see the point in reliving them when he was awake as well.

When it was over, he invited himself to Sara’s flat, took up residence in her sofa bed, and proceeded to drink and drug himself into a stupor.

* * *

Several days later Sara, who had so far let him have his space, cornered him as he was getting out of the shower.

“He’d really like to see you,” she said. “He’s all better now, but they don’t let him go anywhere with what happened—”

Toreth’s ears started ringing, and he closed his eyes, bit the inside of his lower lip hard and concentrated on the sensation, tuning her out.

Sara had fallen silent by the time he managed to get himself under control. Toreth put on the new clothes he’d bought himself and let himself out.

He must have been reeking of sex and cheap perfume when he eventually came back and found her up still, waiting for him.

“Oh, Toreth,” was all she said, as she handed him some headache pills and pushed him towards the sofa bed, where he gratefully collapsed.

* * *

Toreth woke up to the unmistakable smell of pancakes.

He was off the bed so fast his head started spinning and he had to grip the doorframe to steady himself, but it was indeed Warrick, complete with his expensive pans and utensils, looking incongruous in Sara’s kitchen, looking healthy.

“What are you doing here?” Toreth said, and he’d meant to be harsh, but his voice came out hoarse instead. 

“Oh, hello,” Warrick said, giving him a quick once-over before turning back to pour more batter into the pan. “I didn't sneak off on my own, if that's what you were asking. McLean is stationed outside.”

“So when your lawyers tell you to be careful you listen, but when I give you my professional opinion, you don't?!” 

Warrick sighed, turned off the stove despite the fact that the pancake didn't look even remotely cooked yet, then turned towards Toreth.

“I’m sorry,” Warrick said, and unlike some of his apologies he sounded like he actually meant it. “You were right all along, I should have reported the death threats to Justice. Even if it’d meant that the event would be cancelled.”

Toreth snorted. “I hardly think you getting poisoned in front of all your guests generated good reputation for SimTech.”

“You’d be surprised,” Warrick said with a tight smile. “Apparently somebody wanting me out of the way so badly means I must be on to something. Our smoothest financing round ever.”

“Christ,” Toreth said. “Disgusting corporate tossers.”

“Present company excluded, I hope?” Warrick said, tentatively. 

Toreth lunged, putting both hands around Warrick’s neck. To his credit, Warrick didn't even flinch.  
“You…” Toreth snarled, then had to clear his throat once, twice, as the words didn't come.  
“You almost died on me,” Toreth made himself say, even though he sounded pathetic to his own ears.

Warrick said nothing, waiting impassively.

“You're not allowed to die on me,” Toreth said, and could he get more maudlin? He had to get out of there before he embarrassed himself even further, but just as he was about to let go of Warrick and flee—he could be honest with himself about that at least—Warrick bared his throat at him.

“Because I'm yours,” Warrick said, and the words went straight to Toreth’s cock, bypassing the mess his mind was in. “Nobody else is allowed to hurt me.”

“Yes,” Toreth said, relieved that Warrick understood, that he didn't think it was because of…something else. 

“But I didn't listen to you when I should have. I need to be punished, don't you think?” Warrick smiled, looking at Toreth from lowered eyelids.

The manipulation was blatant, yet Toreth felt such a surge of…fondness for Warrick that he had to squash it at once, so he decided to actually follow Warrick’s suggestion.

The pancakes got eaten several hours later.


End file.
